Nobody is interested in your sorrow, unless you
can make a joke or a poem out of it. Funnily, I don't seem to be angry, at
least not yet. Funnily too, things run on quite nicely and evenly around here
as long as I'm busy.
But bear in mind that love is not blind, it is
retarded. What about lust? An optical illusion? OMG! I think I’m the one lost
there. I don’t make sense anymore. Have you ever driven home and then wondered
how you got there? That’s how much I’m lost. Suitcase of regrets. Briefcase of
hope. That’s what I’m carrying around.
Recently one of my friend told me that my crime
was that I loved a woman with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here I
stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking
something so strong they can smell it in the street. Perhaps they were right
putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live anywhere else. Perhaps you
were right Mr. Faulkner.
Time is short, and passing, in this world
that’s all we’ve got. I’m twenty-six and I’m not, she knows, I hope, trying to
pass on to her, bearded, distant, the blame for the shape my life has taken,
denying responsibility.
That day when she offered me to come to her
place, I wanted so badly to lie down next
to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in
those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together, in the most innocent
sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was
gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly
fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk,
thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane. John
Green – Looking for Alaska.
Tiffany’s ring was waiting in my bag. I was
told they were the best for engagement. And I waited for her like a fool at the
train station on my birthday. A birthday which has for guest solitude, anger
and strangers. And I was left with no explanation and a ring waiting to fit in
a finger… the best fingers she would say. But not good enough to build bridges.
The silence wasn’t so bad, till I look at my hands and feel sad. Because the
spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly.
I’m not a Nicholas Sparks character that will
read you a Notebook or letters written to a Dear John, so don’t
expect me to do such sacrifices again when you can’t even do a quarter of what
I did. And I take comfort in knowing that even when things are being taken away
from us, a new world waits, to be discovered, in an upside-down place.
Everything seems so far away at glance and I
guess because it is and we sit trying to figure out what fences we have to
jump, tunnels we have to crawl through and all the crazy shit we think would
get us there as soon as possible. We are all headed there, somewhere out there,
and though some never make it, it’s meant for us to get there. And maybe the
long road is the best road. If we fly there by shortcut what was meant for us
to have may not be ready or we may not be… after all, what’s made in the oven
always taste better than what’s made in the microwave.
I can still bet that she would have laughed to
my lamest jokes like: why can’t a bicycle stand on its own? Because it’s
two-tired. Or when I stupidly say that he’s not Coldplay. He can’t FixYou. Facepalm. But she won’t laugh anymore because her grumpy side
overtook her double faced sense of humor.
But now I guess some what ifs are happier than
ever afters. So I hold on to your unique promise and I’m not saying you have to
meet me. I’m just wishing one day you will. It's called being nice, ever heard
of it? Don’t worry, I’ll keep carrying out a random act of kindness with no
expectation of reward, safe in the knowledge that one day someone might do the
same for me. And you will.
So today, I vowed that no matter how corrupted
or commercial I was to become as a lawyer, I would always put the simple love
of humanity before all. And
I’m tempted to ask if He can give me eyes that see the best in people, a heart
that forgives the worst, a mind that forgets the bad, and a soul that never
loses faith.
I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes
an act of letting go, but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to
say goodbye. Yann Martel – Life of Pi.
And you will regret the chance you didn’t take. So the tragedy of life is
clearly not death but what we let die inside of us while we live.
And I would like her to always remember how heartbreaking was the end of December.
By the beginning of October.
PS: For the past few months, I was often asked indirect questions such as “You are not writing anymore, are you?” and I was fed up of answering to curiosity and gossips. Actually too many issues were drowning me. So I had to take a break from writing. And I’m sorry for it because I know that once you start writing, you should not stop. So here I am.